He reaches back, unclips the canteen and throws it across to me. I pull the stopper greedily and I lean back and take a long gulp, making sure the poncho falls aside, revealing enough of the sword to let him know it’s there. I thank him, replace the stopper and hurl the canteen back. He clips it in place, watching me.

“Where are you headed?” he asks.

“South.”

“Paris Nouveau?”

“That’s right.”

“My name is Claude Duval,” he says. “Highwayman, Bounty Hunter and, for those with a big enough purse, Gun for Hire.”

“I’m Ana Moon.”

“Pathfinder?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“No. You are. I can tell. But you are not of the Order, I can tell that too.” He nods at Ra. “Any good with the sword?”

“Draw the pistol and find out.”

He smiles. “You are a stranger in a strange land,” he says.

Just then a red fruit zings past his hat and, effortlessly, he moves his head to avoid getting hit and snatches it out the air. He turns the fruit over in his hand. It looks like some sort of pulpy red melon. My stomach growls. He flings it hard at a tree-trunk and it splatters like blood.

“Poisonous,” he says. “Once them Gizzards sink in their fangs.”

“Gizzards?”

He raises a finger to the canopy. “Gizzards.”

Right. Those monkey-things. Good to know.

He points into the trees now. “Paris Nouveau is that way.” I squint in this new direction, a difference of degrees, which means I would have been miles off track.

“How far?”

He shrugs. “Too far to walk.”

“How much for the horse?”

He smiles and tips his hat. Knocks leafy debris from the rim. “Not for sale.”

“I might take it anyway.”

He laughs. “Ah bon? Is that a fact? Welcome to try.”

“So, what is this? A mugging? You’re offering your particular services to anyone you think is weak?”

“Think of it as a road tax,” he says, nodding. “But you are not weak.”

“No. I’m not.”

“One more day, no food, no water? You will be.”

“And you reckon you’ll wait. Rob me when I’m too broken to stop you?”

“Something like this.”

“I’m gonna need that horse,” I say. “And you as a guide.”

He smiles down at me.

I realise, as I say the words, that this is not me. This new Ana Moon is almost unrecognisable from the girl who left Sol. How many days ago? I’ve lost count. The days and worlds are bleeding into each other.

Who am I? What have I become?

The grey stamps, and Claude Duval makes a clicking sound between his teeth to settle its nerves. “What is it you want in the capital?” he says.

“I’m searching for someone.”

“Not a safe place, for a Pathfinder.”